Different
by Bob J Montonelli
Summary: Speed thinks this relationship will be different than the others. CSI Miami fic, Horatio/Speed, slash A fic beginning at the morning after. Switches POV each chapter, beginning with Speed's POV and then H's, etc.
1. 1 of 7

I had to write it. Because no one else was writing any, including Yana at that point. Horatio, Speed, slash. CSI Miami don't belong to me, and it wouldn't be half as much fun to play with if it did. 'Sides, I'm not into treading lightly around cranky actors.  
  
  
  
Almost.  
  
Murmur.  
  
Whisper.  
  
I don't want to open my eyes. I don't want to breathe. I don't want  
  
to wake up. I don't want to dream.  
  
Beyond the window is the drawn out swish of a car going down the  
  
road.  
  
His lips were warm, sort of dry and smooth, and when he broke off he  
  
smiled at me and smoothed out my hair, and then we kissed again.  
  
I lick my lips like it's a dream, like I'll open my eyes and his body  
  
won't be warm next to me, it'll just be the cat or worse, just my  
  
fucking imagination.  
  
But the sun scribbles on the inside of my eyelids and I peer, for a  
  
moment the world hazed and blurry, and then clear, and he's already  
  
looking at me like he's waiting, and my dream never did that before.  
  
//"I keep thinking..."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I keep thinking she'll be there tommorow morning. When I come in."  
  
"Me too."//  
  
I want to reach for him, hang my arms from him, rest, sleep, drift  
  
and not have to get up and pretend it's all a dream again. But my  
  
arm is already draped across his ribs, my fingertips ruffling the  
  
fine hairs between his shoulder blades.  
  
Everything's perfect but it's all falling apart, like when I was six  
  
and built the biggest castle out of blocks, and then when I topped it  
  
with a plastic flag it collapsed. It was so close to perfect, and it  
  
was for just a second and then eternity was the blocks crashing to  
  
the carpet and the sudden, distant pain when one struck my head.  
  
Then it was real.  
  
I swallow, throat sandpaper.  
  
I'd think, I'd do something, but he's got that not-even-half but kind  
  
of a quarter smile, mouth quirked up and mostly in his eyes, and it  
  
makes me feel safe even though the blocks are falling in a hail of  
  
color and...  
  
//"It's like she's dead, y'know?"  
  
"I know."  
  
"Did you think she'd leave?"  
  
"I'm not sure...I guess, in the back of my mind, I knew it was  
  
possible."  
  
"I...did try and call her."  
  
"And?"  
  
"She wasn't there."//  
  
"You're gonna hate me," he says, a little sleepy but aren't we both,  
  
at least he can put words to whatever's going on in his head, "but I  
  
really like to watch you sleep."  
  
"Uh?" He does? It seems cliche, but I guess there's a reason why  
  
it's cliche because it kinda feels nice, when someone says something  
  
stupid like that and it's the asscrack of dawn and you're hoping  
  
they're as head-over-heels as you are. "How come?"  
  
He shrugs, and then out of the blue kisses me again, on the  
  
forehead. Slight stubble tickles my skin and I close my eyes just to  
  
feel it, the touch wriggling through my spine.  
  
"I don't hate you." I say to his throat. Do I? "I don't think I  
  
do."  
  
"I hoped not."  
  
In all fairness, this is technically a bad thing. I mean, it's not  
  
in the rules or anything. There's nothing in the handbook, in my  
  
contract, that says I can't fuck (or get fucked by) my boss. But...  
  
I curl into his neck and he tickles the hair at the base of my  
  
skull. God I like that.  
  
...but it just isn't done. Or at least not that I've heard. So...  
  
He kisses the top of my head and I don't *want* to leave, I don't  
  
want to have to let go of him and actually get up, get out of bed and  
  
act like things are just the same as they were before.  
  
...so what can I do? I want to keep it. To myself, I mean.  
  
Otherwise it'd be like telling a dream to someone. They just don't  
  
understand, and then the colors fade and the glassy glinting surface  
  
of it all seems to shatter and you step on the pieces, and there's  
  
the color, all right, all red.  
  
Things aren't the same. I don't know if it's good or bad. It feels  
  
good, though.  
  
Stupidity stumbles from my sleepy mouth before I can really  
  
think. "Did you want this?"  
  
But he fields it. "Would I be here if I didn't?"  
  
I shift a little. His skin is cool with dried sweat. "I...guess  
  
not. This hasn't happened before."  
  
He laughs, stirring my hair, the tingle in my scalp like home, like  
  
safe. "Oh, Speed..." no words but that and then he wrestles me  
  
closer.  
  
Like a dream, please god, don't make me have to wake up.  
  
"You know, I think there's something I oughta be saying."  
  
I do pull back, I pull from his arms for the first time since last  
  
night, and I look at him, frowning, almost afraid, waiting for the  
  
blocks to come down  
  
the sleep to wake  
  
and the dream to shatter.  
  
"I just have no idea what it is."  
  
I shrug, meekly. 'I love you,' I want to say, because I think it's  
  
true. I have a hunch, I feel it my gut (among other things), however  
  
you want to say it. I love you and it feels like I shouldn't, but  
  
please, please don't leave me to wake up alone, because I can't do  
  
that, you don't know, do you, how hard it is? Waking up empty and  
  
cold? Waiting for your friend's voice on the phone but he's just not  
  
there. Waiting to hear his snores on the floor in your old sleeping  
  
bag, the gleam of his glasses in the morning light, when it's too  
  
early for either of you to be up?  
  
I swear to god, I love you. Don't know if I want you to be my  
  
boyfriend or my friend or my companion or my lover or what, what I  
  
should call you when I won't call you boss because you're not, not  
  
after hours. Don't know what I want to be to you when you find that  
  
ticklish spot on my spine that makes all the aching muscles and  
  
aching heart and the memories of dead little kids go *away*.  
  
He catches the side of my face in his hand and grazes his thumb along  
  
my cheekbone, watching me unreadable, stop it, you're going to make  
  
me cry, Horatio.  
  
So he kisses me again, lips now, rustling from safe, confined places  
  
something hurting.  
  
//"Jesus, Tim, what the hell is the matter with you?"  
  
"I told you not to call me that!"  
  
"What? Tim? Newsflash, it's your *name*!"  
  
"No, no, *Speed* is my name, understand? Speed. Or Speedle. I  
  
don't care what the fuck you call me but it's NOT *Tim*, got that?"//  
  
His kiss is gentle as his hands, so gentle it hurts, it burns, it  
  
makes me swallow thick as my lips touch his, when last night his  
  
hands skated up my chest and left me reeling wondering why the hell I  
  
didn't do this sooner.  
  
Because I remember.  
  
//Look, Speedle, I'm sick of this."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Listening to your dysfunctional bullshit. I'm leaving."  
  
"Manda--"//  
  
Please god, please, let me not screw something up for once.  
  
I close my eyes, like prayer.  
  
Please god--  
  
His warmth, the way a human touch feels cool against the backdrop of  
  
sweltering swampland south Florida, a smooth all-over comfort like a  
  
fire on a winter night in darkness.  
  
The air conditioning whirrs soft, breeze drifting like breath on cold  
  
windowpanes, frosting us both with last night's sweat.  
  
Content, for a moment or two, to lie still, and I almost want to go  
  
back to sleep, just for a few more hours feeling right at home in his  
  
arms. Funny how it doesn't feel like the betrayal I thought it  
  
would, before, what seems like ages ago before Megan left and when I  
  
started feeling funny, feeling happy in an iridescent bubble sort of  
  
way, whenever he looked at me or touched my shoulder or smiled.  
  
I didn't want him to find out, for my own self-preserving utterly  
  
selfish reasons, and I went to fucking *lengths* for him not to  
  
know.  
  
Funny how that works out, with me clinging to him like a lost little  
  
kid, the taste of his skin in my mouth and faintly bruised from the  
  
razorblade between lust and hate.  
  
//"Shhh, Speed. It's ok. It's ok..." He soothes in my ear, wet and  
  
warm.  
  
"I *know* that..." Grunted with inevitable ache.  
  
"Force of habit." Like a smile against my cheek, the laugh in his  
  
voice.  
  
"Ha-habit?" Sweaty and breathy and frustrated, god, jesus, fucking  
  
*christ*--//  
  
Oh, hell yes I'm sore.  
  
I think everyone, in their way, is some kind of closet masochist.  
  
Otherwise no one would ever have sex. And *then* where would we be?  
  
Well, I wouldn't be dozing naked with my boss.  
  
Might be fantasizing about Calleigh's legs, but doesn't everyone?  
  
Fuck that. Fuck *me*.  
  
"Hey, H."  
  
"Mmm?" His voicebox vibrates against my shoulder.  
  
"We can, like, do this some more, right?"  
  
"Which?"  
  
"Um, the whole, you come over to my place, we have a heart-to-heart  
  
and then you fuck me into the mattress."  
  
"Sure. One thing, though--"  
  
I swallow, suddenly and stupidly nervous.  
  
"We skip the heart-to-heart, ok?" He pulls back, laughing, and  
  
kisses me for the hundreth, the thousandth time, as if he can't help  
  
himself.  
  
Wow, that was an ego boost. Someone wants to hold me. Wants to kiss  
  
me and never seems to tire of it. I smile back at him. "Good plan."  
  
"S'why I'm the boss." He yawns. "Jesus. What time is it?"  
  
It occurs to me, a trivial fact in the face of such revelation, that  
  
it is, in fact, Wednesday. The alarm clock, formerly a resident of  
  
the bedside table and now huddled on the floor (did we do that?)  
  
further elaborates; we have two hours before work.  
  
"Aw, shit." I grumble. "Don' wanna get up. Fucking christ..."  
  
He strokes my chest absently. Can't get over it--he doesn't want to  
  
stop touching me. Me? I could get used to this, hell yes. "We have  
  
to get up."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Work."  
  
"Nope, sorry, not a good enough reason."  
  
"Ok, how `bout, we go to work and you get first dibs on Mrs.  
  
DeLucca's jacket."  
  
"Right. Ok. That I can live with." 


	2. 2 of 7

Breakfast, nothing spectacular. Cereal, milk. Prosaic and  
  
domestic.  
  
He keeps sneaking looks at me above his cereal like some chagrined  
  
little kid--I half expect him to be kicking his legs back and forth  
  
under the table. Half, though, only half, and he looks shy and  
  
shamed.  
  
//"H, look, it's nothing--"  
  
"You were lying when you said that before and you're still lying  
  
now. Come on. It can't be *that* horrible."  
  
"This isn't *fair*..."//  
  
He said it under his breath, animal-trapped, lodged in a corner. In  
  
retrospect that wasn't the most compassionate thing for me to do, nor  
  
the safest. His face cast sharp red like a sunburn, and the heat of  
  
it when I touched--stroked--his cheek, just wanting him to tell me  
  
because I didn't want to see him hurting. I knew he was--he was  
  
tired, that much was plain. And the real, deep exhaustion turning  
  
his eyes dull and flat as those of a corpse.  
  
//"I...H...I mean, I...like...look, can you promise me you won't go  
  
nuts?"  
  
"Speed, I'm here. I'm here because I want to know what's wrong."  
  
"It's not exactly something *wrong*..."  
  
"Oh?"//  
  
He likes being touched, being held. The backed-to-a-wall, defensive,  
  
bladed reactions slide away, just to be held and breathed in,  
  
familiar a reaction as any.  
  
//"Horsho! Horsho! Where daddy?"  
  
"He's...out."  
  
"When `ome Horsho?"  
  
"Soon, Ray. Soon."//  
  
I don't profess to know *why* he acts that way. It doesn't much  
  
matter, really.  
  
Sitting at a dented formica table, sitting with him and watching him  
  
from time to time in between stirring up the last few renegade  
  
cheerios, sitting and wishing it was sunday.  
  
What is it? Eight, ten hours of work? Of course, he has to come in,  
  
too. Great--eight to ten hours of maddening frustration trying not  
  
to let everyone within earshot know the details of my personal life.  
  
I catch him looking at me and smile.  
  
//"Igottacrushonyou."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I...uhhh...I...want...I..."//  
  
His voice, stumbling as I touched him, his face, his neck, curled my  
  
hand around the back of his head.  
  
//"I'm--really, *really* attracted to...you."  
  
"That's not quite what I expected."  
  
"What? You thought I was gonna say I was really attracted to  
  
*Megan*?"  
  
"Now, Speed, that's just par for the course."  
  
"Bastard."//  
  
He had kissed me then, hard and clumsy but Jesus, no lack of heart in  
  
him.  
  
Speed smiles back at me across the table, an unnerving grin, one I've  
  
never seen before. It occurs to me, now, that I've never seen him  
  
smile this much--worse, I barely remember his smile at all. And it's  
  
startling to realize that I'm used to a steady, soft-lined frown or  
  
grimace of frustration or just...flat. His eyes, too, glimmer a  
  
little, relaxed, the dull dun blank being ebbed away, eaten like a  
  
sandcastle in the tide.  
  
//He blushes, furious and blotchy, gripping my shoulder hard enough  
  
to bruise, mouth still locked on mine, body warm, body hot and  
  
prickly next to mine, next thing I know with my arm around his waist  
  
and drawing him close to me, breaking the kiss...  
  
...to nuzzle him, run my hands along his sides, and kiss him again.// 


	3. 3 of 7

Calleigh catches me sometime, corners me really.  
  
Everyone's been cornering me lately.  
  
Well--not lately. It's been two days since that--whole thing. The  
  
second night H came over to my place again, and then last night I was  
  
over with him. And H doesn't corner me now. Backs me into a wall,  
  
sure, covers my body with his, fucks me senseless, holds me close.  
  
But doesn't corner me--doesn't *trap* me. He did the first night  
  
because I was avoiding him, and maybe it's something like instinct  
  
born of experience, but he trapped me with words like he does with a  
  
suspect. Sort of weirdly thrilling, in a vague and not-quite-  
  
masochistic way.  
  
Calleigh, though, cocks her hand and anchors her hands on her hips  
  
and looks up at me, expectant. It's not like I'm not used to it--  
  
we've taken to alternately mocking and being friendly with each  
  
other. And, it being early yet, I'm still high on last night and, as  
  
usual (it's usual now?) doing my damndest to hide it.  
  
"Hey, Speed."  
  
"Hey."  
  
"You been seein' Megan?"  
  
That twinges, almost like when someone reels their hand back to slap  
  
you, but doesn't and you flinch anyway. Like that. "Uhh...n-no."  
  
Well, that sounded intelligent, Speedy boy. Nice one. I swallow  
  
hard. "Why?"  
  
"Oh, nothing. It's just you been so happy, I figured you had to be  
  
getting it with someone."  
  
Ooooh, *that* hurts. Ow. Worse than I thought it would. It didn't  
  
before. I mean, we've--I've--it's--the words come barking out my  
  
mouth before I can stop them. "Fuck off, Cal. Mind your own damn  
  
business." Harsh as a rusting chain or a a starving dog. Stupid  
  
brain. Stupid stupid stupid brain. God *dammit*.  
  
She looks startled. Startled and hurt.  
  
Funny how my mouth keeps getting me screwed.  
  
"Okay, then."  
  
"Cal, m'sorry..." I mutter lamely.  
  
She's gone off, though, back to her case, leaving me lost and feeling  
  
like a total idiot.  
  
I shove my hands in my pockets and wander off down the hall. Back to  
  
my own case, back to Horatio, back to evidence and facts and things  
  
*I* control, not my stupid mouth or my own desperation.  
  
God *dammit*. 


	4. 4 of 7

Still strange, the touch of his lips or the feel of his body resting  
  
against mine. Still uncertain, waiting for each other, trying not to  
  
go too fast or too slow.  
  
I don't know for certain that he likes to be submissive to me. He  
  
seems to, leading me on like he does.  
  
Fourth night together, and he's at my place again, and it's almost a  
  
pattern. The first two at his place, sparse for a kid's apartment,  
  
empty even in the dark.  
  
Not that my place is really so much better, but...I don't know.  
  
Maybe it's just because it's mine, or because I'm older. Or  
  
something.  
  
Something's up with him tonight. He's distracted and has that  
  
tiredness looped across him again. I touch his face and he starts,  
  
like he was daydreaming.  
  
"Speed? You okay?"  
  
He sighs, face in hands, muscles taut and it hurts to look at him.  
  
So I stroke his back like I know he likes, like I know soothes him,  
  
feeling guilty because I'm using it to get him to talk.  
  
"What's up?"  
  
He speaks and doesn't look up, voice muffled and tumbled on a long  
  
breath. "Just thinking."  
  
"Uh...huh." Touch behind his ear, not quite willing to make him look  
  
at me yet. "What about?"  
  
"'Bout everything."  
  
Oh. So he's thinking about our--whatever it is. Relationship.  
  
Tryst. Never a good thing. And possibly...but he...no. "What about  
  
everything?" I prod.  
  
He *does* look at me now, of his own accord, looking slapped,  
  
scalded, hurt and afraid at once. Looking run-down and rabbity, like  
  
he's just proven his nickname and now huddles panting and--  
  
Trapped. Helpless.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"You're scared someone'll find out?" I'm holding him close, because  
  
even though I'd never admit it, that makes me damn nervous too. No,  
  
it's not against any rules. But it's just one of those things that  
  
automatically makes you nervous. He nods, I feel it against my chest  
  
and shoulder. "Not surprised. Ok, so tell me, Speed, what do you  
  
think would happen?"  
  
"H, I never even thought *this* would happen."  
  
Poor kid. Confused as all hell. Damn. But what do I say now? I  
  
never thought I'd be sitting on my couch with my coworker, never  
  
thought Speed even *liked* me, let alone that he'd lie belly-up and  
  
vulnerable to me, trusting me. I never thought it either.  
  
He's silent again for a long time, and that's fine with me. I can  
  
damn near hear the muscles in my back unwinding, Speed's arms sliding  
  
around my ribs. He kisses my throat, my lips, looks at me with a  
  
question in his eyes. Nothing to do with words, a question I don't  
  
understand. I don't know what he's asking.  
  
"I *did* want this." Half to himself, as though trying to reaffirm  
  
something. "I..."  
  
Yet now he looks down, an empty, far away look on his face. I feel  
  
his fingers grip the back of my shirt tightly.  
  
Nuzzle his face and stroke his hair, finger the stubble along his  
  
jaw. "You what?"  
  
The question is back in earnest, darkening his eyes. "You won't  
  
leave, will you?"  
  
Oh, something tells me this is important. Something in him hinges on  
  
the answer to this question, an answer I don't know, what can I say  
  
that'll push it the right way, what the hell *is* the right way,  
  
anyhow? 


	5. 5 of 7

He holds me. Doesn't ask me things. Well--he does. But only  
  
because he wants to make it better. I...think...I do admire that.  
  
He's damn good at it. Some case, back when Megan was boss, he had to  
  
question some nine, ten year old kid about a shooting. The one thing  
  
I just couldn't accept with Megan was that she couldn't ever  
  
understand what was going on in the witnesses heads, their hearts.  
  
What they saw and how it hurt them. H? He's got this weird gift, I  
  
don't know, some kind of talent. Maybe it's experience. But he can  
  
talk to any witness and make them feel safe even standing eight feet  
  
away from them with his badge glinting in the lights.  
  
My mom, she had something like that. When I was seven, I think  
  
seven, I saw her talk a suicidal kid down from the bureau of his room  
  
at the state hospital. Saw her draw the knife out of his hands with  
  
words. I was just a little kid, but I knew then how important it  
  
was.  
  
And then I see H do that same thing with that scared kid, just coax  
  
what she saw out of her. Took him hours and hours to do it and  
  
pissed Megan off to no end. But he got it.  
  
He doesn't really ask things. Just kind of suggests them and leaves  
  
them out there, kind of like fishing except less pain and no blood.  
  
And when he's holding me, like now, like now when I'm remembering  
  
what Calleigh said about Megan, about me, and I know how those  
  
witnesses feel.  
  
Safe.  
  
I trust him. That's a new realization. Fairly new. I trust him not  
  
to hurt me, not to lie to me.  
  
Not...to...  
  
leave me.  
  
Jason. Manda. Megan. People leave me all the time. Why should  
  
this be any different?  
  
Well, tough, it is.  
  
He's stroking my hair now and waiting for me to answer him. What was  
  
I going to say? I want to ask him, I want to be sure  
  
of...something. Anything. I'm sure as hell *not* sure right now,  
  
I'm scared and I'm safe at once. I know he won't let me get hurt.  
  
He just won't do that. It's not in him. So that's ok. But what  
  
else could happen?  
  
"You won't leave, will you?"  
  
That takes him aback. He's stumbling for an answer. Please, please,  
  
please say no, please say you won't leave me, please, I don't wanna...  
  
Jesus. Jesus fucking christ, I really don't want to be alone, do I?  
  
I always was thinking this was different than things have ever been,  
  
and not just because he's Horatio.  
  
Please let it be different.  
  
He starts kissing me, hard, no little bit rough. Not a bad answer,  
  
all things considered.  
  
Shoves me back onto the couch. Um, eep.  
  
A pause, looking down at me, interested, maybe hungry, something like  
  
that. From half a vaguely predatory smile, "Do you want me to leave?"  
  
Now there's H. Answering a question with a question. Some things  
  
are never different. "N-no." His weight presses down on me,  
  
comforting, stable, *real*.  
  
"Then I won't."  
  
//I love you// my mind mumbles, dazed with happy, horny lust. I bite  
  
it back, desperate not to fuck this one thing up. I will do anything  
  
not to screw up. Anything.  
  
His kisses are rougher, harder than they've been before. Scrabbling  
  
for him, scrambling to be touched, stroked, *fucked*.  
  
Oh, *god* but he's good at this. What, is there some required course  
  
at U Miami?  
  
Never been this rough before. Don't know if I like it, if I should  
  
like it, if I ought to lie back and take it or ask him, wait, what's  
  
going on?  
  
The arm of the couch digs into the base of my neck.  
  
H, stop, please, wait a minute--  
  
Because he's never *been* like this. Never been rough like he's  
  
angry at me, never been--  
  
Not--  
  
When he lips find the edge of my mouth again and I grasp at him, dig  
  
and thrust into him, then I speak, croaking out pathetic--  
  
"Wait--"  
  
He stops then. He stops, and I lie there for a moment, panting, eyes  
  
closed, his body, him, his touch, on me. Lick my lips and open my  
  
eyes.  
  
He looks--  
  
Worried? Afraid? No, worried. Concerned. He touches my face, hand  
  
shaking a little and breathing hard. Might be fear or lust or  
  
wanting him...might be...  
  
"Speed?"  
  
Wrap my arms tight around him and press my face into his shoulder.  
  
He touches my back. Strokes the edge of my shoulderblade and down  
  
and rubs my back gently.  
  
"Speed? What's wrong?"  
  
//I was scared. I was scared you were fucking pissed at me for  
  
asking you not to leave me. I was scared you were going to. H, oh,  
  
jesus, I was fucking *scared*, god, don't leave me, please...// But  
  
all that comes out is a meek, "Scared."  
  
"Oh, Speed. Oh, god, I'm sorry. I'm sorry Speed."  
  
Just breathe him in. Listen to his heartbeat. Think about how much  
  
I want him still, how I'm still fucking hard, still on overdrive and  
  
wanting his touch.  
  
Think about him apologizing, soothing, loving and gentle.  
  
Know and cling to the certainty that this is different and he won't  
  
leave me, now or ever.  
  
So I kiss him again, leading him on to touch me, want to see that  
  
look on his face when he makes me come. Kiss his face and lips and  
  
whisper, "It's ok. Just...go slow?"  
  
"Like I said," and he smoothes my hair down, "whatever you want."  
  
Whatever *I* want? He wants to give me that, meaning he wants me. I  
  
want to wake up with him, over and over and over, because I'll never  
  
get tired of it, and I want his arms around me and his mouth on my  
  
skin, and his voice soothing in my ear when he fucks me. Oh, yes,  
  
and I want him to fuck me.  
  
Kisses languid like Miami in midsummer, like dreams but lasting.  
  
We don't make it to the bed, but the couch just isn't comfortable for  
  
two people to fuck, and the floor is a good enough compromise, lying  
  
there with him, just going slow. His hands slide up my shirt, like  
  
that first night, rough palms and soft fingertips brushing my ribs  
  
and scribbling on my back. I lie on my back for him, still clothed  
  
and breathing hard because it feels so damn good, aches and makes me  
  
writhe and grasp his shirt and shoulder and *anything*...  
  
I lie on my back and let his hand roam along my chest, stroke and  
  
thumb my nipple and his mouth is locked on mine still, and his shirt  
  
has come untucked, so what will he do...?  
  
He gasps and grips, gah-oh, god, that hurt and then just as suddenly  
  
burns with pleasure.  
  
His eyes are so dark now, his skin warm. He blinks.  
  
"Like that?" I ask him, trying to smile like he does with half his  
  
mouth, failing, but just brushing his nipple again to make him make  
  
that *noise*, wow, I can *do* that?  
  
He kisses, and nuzzles and mumbles something against my throat.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
A kiss, another kiss, while he just runs his hand up and down my  
  
chest, "You're beautiful," he tells me, with perfect honesty, which  
  
has that nipple-tweaking sensation to it, pain and then the textured,  
  
velvety, scalding wash of it, pleasure and happiness. "You are."  
  
I'm beautiful?  
  
He wouldn't lie to me.  
  
I'm beautiful...  
  
I push back and trace his lips with my fingers, like I'm blind and  
  
drawing his face with my hands. The way his eyebrows curve and arch  
  
in confusion, in contenment, this muscle or that, the course texture  
  
of his hair falling over my skin, orangy-red to my own dark.  
  
I can feel everything, one hand warm and rough on my stomach, the  
  
other wrapped behind my head, the softness of skin and the tight pull  
  
of muscle beneath, the way my sweaty fingers stick to sleek fabric,  
  
bristle of carpet and ghost of breath.  
  
My shirt feels hot and close.  
  
Horatio leans over me, keeps up the tickle of light kisses on my  
  
face, here and there licking and nipping, never any real pain.  
  
Eyes flicker open now and then, try not to close them, because I want  
  
to see how pleased he looks, how good I am to him, for him...  
  
Grasp at buttons, impatient for all the touch I can gather, wanting  
  
to hold it, tangle it on my fingers, listen to his voice and the  
  
skate of his hands on my body, counting ribs.  
  
//"I shouldn't of done that."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because--I mean...'cause...well, I...I mean I...it's not...I..."  
  
"Come here."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Come here, Speed, and do it again."//  
  
Something rises, like a bird inside my chest, gasping, fluttering.  
  
Quick blue-shadowed darkness when he helps me off with my tee-shirt,  
  
and with him it's never just one piece that makes the puzzle, but all  
  
of them.  
  
Edge,  
  
His heartbeat on my shoulder and his breath on my collarbone.  
  
Corner,  
  
As my nails dig deep into his back under his shirt and his tongue  
  
finds my nipple and drives me crazy,  
  
Inside,  
  
The pain makes him bite reflexively.  
  
The picture,  
  
Coloring my voice and yelping, sparks of lust run from my nerves to  
  
my dick, thrust against him, trusting his arms, his mouth, his  
  
voice.  
  
His apartment shrinks down to me and him and the floor, itching  
  
carpet and warm skin and wet mouth, with time frozen,  
  
//"Like I said, whatever you want."//  
  
I want him. 


	6. 6 of 7

Slow, he said. Go slow.  
  
So I do, not really minding. I'm glad to do what he wants, since it  
  
makes him happy, and it makes him smile. Funny what you don't miss  
  
when you don't know it's there.  
  
His head leans back and to the side, arcing his neck into the line of  
  
his chest.  
  
I like the feel of his skin, warm and soft, the way his muscles  
  
twitch spasmodically.  
  
Even kissing him, even focusing on making him tremble under my hand,  
  
I hear myself panting, my body clearly impatient with his request.  
  
But he said slow.  
  
So I can concentrate on this for now.  
  
Until he tries a trick of his own, slips a hand under my shirt and  
  
strokes my nipple, not *exactly* what I expected but--  
  
I yelp and grip, maybe too hard because his body jerks and he kicks  
  
me sharply in the shin.  
  
Not what I expected, but he can do it again. As much as he wants.  
  
I keep kissing him, tasting his skin, breathing in the smell of his  
  
aftershave and listening to him groan and pant in my ear.  
  
"You're beautiful."  
  
Because he is, black hair and shy eyes and a sweet, sweet smile that  
  
makes me wish I could hold him all day, damn the consequences.  
  
You beautiful, wonderful, sweet, stupid, brilliant man. I liked you  
  
before. I admit I wanted you. (Still want you, want you more than  
  
before, even, want you in bed, on the floor, with me). Oh, Speed, do  
  
you have any inkling what you *do* to me?  
  
"You are..."  
  
He touches my face, drawing over it, like a blind man. His lips  
  
parted in beckoning, half a smile curving into his cheek. His touch,  
  
so close, makes me flicker my eyes on instinct. He touches my lips  
  
and I feel it like a noise in my ears. Lick the tips of his fingers,  
  
kiss his hand, salt-sweat sharp as old copper.  
  
I hold him still, hold him under my body, wrapping my hand behind his  
  
head to kiss him deep, suck his tongue.  
  
//"I didn't want you to find out..."  
  
"Why?"//  
  
I remember the heat of his blush when I kissed him that first time,  
  
pink and feverish on my face. I remember the weight of his hands on  
  
my waist when he kissed me back, eager with caution thrown to the  
  
wind, as if, as if...  
  
As if he wanted to go down happy.  
  
I feel his muscles tense and tremble as I play with the hairs on his  
  
belly, stroke and coax.  
  
Because he likes it.  
  
//"H--oh, jesus--oh, fuck-ing-christ--oh, boss..."  
  
Boss.//  
  
The first time, I bit him. Bit his shoulder. Not enough to bleed  
  
but the bruise was there, still is there. The first time, the  
  
second, the third, he growls low in his throat when he comes and I  
  
feel it, my head resting on the crux of his neck and back.  
  
I kiss his face blindly, feel his hands grope and grasp for the  
  
buttons of my shirt, snaps two off and undoes one more.  
  
//We get dressed in the morning and he wears my shirt, loose on him,  
  
arms just a little too long.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I like it."  
  
"T-shirts are easier to get off..."  
  
"C'mon, H, I thought you liked a challenge."//  
  
He plants his hands on my torso and I slide his shirt off, letting it  
  
catch and bunch on his arms like cloth handcuffs. He tosses it off,  
  
lies back on the floor with his arms behind his hand, beckon, wait, a  
  
look in his eyes. They've gone sort of murkily dark, cool river on a  
  
hot day, promising relief. His skin is pale against the dark orange-  
  
red carpet, pale and furred with black. I lie on my side next to  
  
him, prop my hand on one hand and trace the line of his torso with  
  
the other. He watches me, I watch him. He looks dazed but with  
  
Speed there's always something going on inside. I don't kiss him now  
  
because I want to watch him.  
  
So slow it's almost maddening, and my body is berating me to do  
  
something, something. Anything.  
  
Map his chest, shoulder to collarbone to sternum to collarbone to  
  
shoulder, shoulder to pectoral, pectoral to sternum and back again,  
  
against or with the grain of hair sprouting in bird-shape, almost.  
  
His eyes squeeze shut and his lips part, teeth bared. He likes  
  
this.  
  
Understatement, Horatio, he loves it  
  
He breathes hard and shaky, tense with trying to stay still.  
  
I explore him with my mouth, trailing wet, high pitched whimper too  
  
close to my ear. He grasps, somehow the last of my shirt's buttons  
  
done away with, digs bruising into my back.  
  
//"So...so...uh, what...what...um, how does this work?"  
  
"I thought you majored in biology."  
  
"This...was *not* in the textbook, H..."  
  
"This would probably fall under...uh...experimental research."//  
  
His nipples are hard, doubtless his dick too, though he *did* say go  
  
slow...  
  
Right. He wants to be driven crazy, I can do that. Maybe.  
  
I lick, he gasps and grasps and *digs*, deep, ow, dammit, gonna be  
  
blood from that--  
  
I bite.  
  
Not meaning to, but shock...  
  
He gives a low, hoarse groaning cry and jerks his hips against me.  
  
I pull back a little, and the look on his face is dumb, drugged  
  
lust. He draws faint circles on my back, kisses me languidly.  
  
"Do that again..." he whispers.  
  
"I don't want to hurt you." Because it must've hurt. I *bit* him.  
  
(Again).  
  
"It didn't hurt....well, actually...it kinda hurt. But then it felt  
  
good."  
  
//"Have you done this before?"  
  
"Which?"  
  
"Had sex with a guy?"  
  
"Yes...a couple of times. Why?"  
  
"I haven't."//  
  
He'd never gotten fucked by somebody before. I hadn't had sex with  
  
another guy since being on the bomb squad, since being married and  
  
then divorced.  
  
"Do it again?" He asks hopefully, stroking both my nipples, his  
  
hands rough, and I swear he could make me do anything.  
  
So I bite his nipple again, lightly, barely grazing, testing his  
  
reaction. He does like it. He hisses and whimpers and scratches raw  
  
streaks down my back.  
  
It's learning things all over again.  
  
//"Look, Caine. I appreciate your sense of integrity and all, but  
  
come on, look around you. Integrity? Honor? Stuff like that isn't  
  
worth a rat's ass here."  
  
"So where's it worth something?"  
  
"Nowadays? Kid, it ain't worth anything anywhere. Remember that."  
  
"I will."//  
  
Taught to keep your eyes open, your hands steady, and your focus  
  
clear.  
  
Good plan.  
  
//"Caine, listen. You've gotta learn sometimes that the ends justify  
  
the means."  
  
"So it doesn't matter that McMahon got three people shot getting to  
  
his suspect?"  
  
"He got the suspect, Caine. That's what matters."//  
  
So is this defusing a bomb, lying here kissing him and going slow,  
  
fucking him, as he puts it, `into the mattress'? Speed's not a kid.  
  
He's not the 23 year old Megan first encountered in the crimelab. He  
  
knows what he's doing. Most of the time. Speed knows so much about  
  
everything that it's hard not to leave him on his own to figure  
  
things out, but I can't, because he doesn't have the experience yet.  
  
Or the confidence.  
  
//"Sorry, boss, really, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"  
  
"Speed, calm down. It's okay. Really."//  
  
He links his hands loosely around my back when I return to kissing  
  
his face, licking below his jaw. He thrusts his hips up against me,  
  
groaning. I could say something, maybe--  
  
(still wanna go slow, speed?)  
  
--but I don't think I'm coherent enough.  
  
My hands drop to his belly, his waist, his belt. I squeeze his  
  
erection through his jeans, and watch all coherent thought dissolve  
  
from his eyes. Not bad. 


	7. 7 of 7 end

It's almost scary that he does it. I ask him to, to do it again  
  
because it feels *good*, which I didn't expect. I feel his saliva  
  
cooling on my bare skin. It tickles and I want him to do it again.  
  
(purely scientific reasons, of course)  
  
He's reluctant but another kiss and my hands gusting over his nipples  
  
convinces him. He bites me but gently, just hard enough that it  
  
hurts and lightly enough that the pleasure is almost immediate. Oh,  
  
fucking jesus--  
  
I grip hard, feel absently the give of flesh under my nails. He  
  
works at it, snapping and soothing almost in one motion, teeth here  
  
and tongue there, and I think there's a wire from my nipple to my  
  
dick, wishing, gasping for him to touch me. Everytime his tongue  
  
comes down I dig deep and he twitches and I know the stickyness on my  
  
fingertips is blood. I consider for the umpteenth time in about  
  
thirty seconds what he whispered to me on heavy breath,  
  
"Whatever you want."  
  
Ok. So I'm in control--  
  
--erk. Or not. Tongue, lips, yikes--  
  
--so I'm maybe in control, and it feels so damn good...I want to try  
  
something different. I just don't know how to ask or whether he  
  
really will do it, and I don't know if I *can* ask him...I don't know  
  
if I can ask him to do it, he *is* still my boss, and how would I  
  
work with him without getting an instant hard-on everytime he looks  
  
at me?  
  
Or blushing the color of his hair?  
  
I want to know, in a sickly savage way, whether he really would do  
  
it. Whether he'd actually be willing to blow me. If he'd swallow.  
  
He shifts back without a word to kissing the brain-numbingly  
  
sensitive spot under my jaw. H, H, my dick thanks you *so* much...  
  
Everything's a touch. My skin is cold burning and numb, feeling like  
  
I'm made of wet sand all packed together. He squeezes my hard-on  
  
through my jeans and all thought blown sky-fucking-high on that one,  
  
buck my hips against his and feel his low, deep laugh. Stubble  
  
bristle rough fingers warm touch warm body sleek muscle slight  
  
sifting fuzz...  
  
"H..." I groan, and it really sounds much more like a plea than  
  
anything else.  
  
"Mmm-hmm...?"  
  
Well, he seems pleased with himself. He should, too.  
  
"Uh, you, uhh, said, what, what I want, right?" I'm sweating cold  
  
tracks down my flanks and temples right now. His scrutiny makes me  
  
squirm which shoots my ability to speak all to hell.  
  
"Yes."  
  
I close my eyes, tilt my head. If I wasn't lying flat on my back I'd  
  
be staring skyward. Chewing my lips, a nervous gesture. "Will you,  
  
I mean, I, uh, would you...please..." I wriggle. Every movement my  
  
dick brushes against the inside of my boxers and another spike of  
  
pleasure jerks into my belly.  
  
Oh, that hand moving up and down my chest is fucking distracting.  
  
Goddamn.  
  
"Blow me?" I ask. And it sounds fucking inelegant, but there's not  
  
real subtle way to put it, and at the moment, well, *fuck* subtle.  
  
He smiles into another deep, tonsil-kicking kiss. I think the hands  
  
now fiddling with my belt, two, three fingers slipping between my hip  
  
and waistband, oh, that's *so* a yes...  
  
He doesn't need to say anything. Just sits back, while I struggle up  
  
onto my elbows because I want to watch him, struggle because my blood  
  
is *not* going to my muscles right now.  
  
I *have* to watch him. Like it's not real. I remember waking up  
  
after the first time and not wanting to open my eyes because I  
  
thought it wouldn't be him.  
  
My arms shake. He tickles my ribs and kisses me gently. "Sure."  
  
An awkward moment.  
  
"Lie down." He says, a hand resting on my chest.  
  
"I wanna watch you." Okay, that sounded idiotic, Speed. Brilliant.  
  
Porn-star.  
  
"Um." He settles back on his haunches. We're both breathing hard.  
  
I trace a pattern through the pale hairs on his chest. "Okay, uh,  
  
sit back against the couch. That'll work."  
  
I do. My sweat sticks to the vinyl sofa, squeaks and bleats. He  
  
licks his lips. He's...  
  
Whoa, he's, kinda...beautiful. Is this how he feels about me? Is  
  
this what he sees when he leans over me, mumuring to me that I'm  
  
beautiful between kisses, between his hands and mouth driving me  
  
nuts?  
  
Just watching him I know the feel of his lips, and the soft,  
  
insistent way he kisses. The way no one's ever kissed me before.  
  
The thought that he's going to go down on me almost makes me cum  
  
right there, which would've negated the whole process.  
  
"It's okay, Speed."  
  
Because I'm shaking with anticipation. And he's always there, his  
  
touch, his presence stable, comforting.  
  
He undoes my belt. Everytime his skin touches mine I whimper--  
  
jello in a balloon  
  
--squirm, yelp, gasp.  
  
H undoes my jeans, sucking on my lip, his tongue swiping mine. I  
  
close my eyes and tilt my head back, back. Sweat down my temples and  
  
in my hair, the warm sticky wet tongue slipping down my neck, throat,  
  
chest, belly.  
  
I'm panting, digging my fingers into the carpet.  
  
Hands, mouth, tongue. The soft coarse touch of his hair on my  
  
chest.  
  
"Easy, Speed." He mumbles into my belly.  
  
I grunt.  
  
He strokes my dick with one hand, the other gripping my upper arm  
  
hard. Feels so fucking *good*, sweet *jesus*, oh, *god*...  
  
Mouth. Warm. Wet. Warm.  
  
"--nhg-ratio..." I growl. His grip loosens and he sucks me  
  
awkwardly, but who gives a flying *fuck* about technique, it doesn't  
  
*matter*, hell *no*, no fucking *way*--  
  
I can't even seperate out what he's doing. I know one hand is still  
  
in my jeans, stroking behind my balls, and I *know* his mouth is on  
  
my dick, but--  
  
who fucking cares what he's doing.  
  
--exactly. I can barely breathe straight solid breaths. I can't,  
  
ragged gasping gulping, I tense up and feel like my brain comes  
  
draining out my ears and come oh fucking *GOD*--  
  
The roar of blood in my ears dies down and I start to notice that my  
  
fingers are still knuckle deep in carpet and my eyes are squeezed  
  
shut.  
  
Coughing.  
  
When I open my eyes I see his back, his neck, sweat-tangled hair.  
  
His shoulders jerk as he coughs again and spits on the carpet. He  
  
looks up at me, an almost rueful grin tweaking his lips. A kiss, and  
  
I loop my arms lazily around his torso. His hair falls in his face,  
  
and his eyes are soft blue. He looks happy, relaxed. I could almost  
  
imagine him as the child he must've (was he?) been once.  
  
I feel my body shaking as adrenaline, as lust, leaves it. What do I  
  
say, if anything? It warrants something. I just don't know what,  
  
because it's way outside the range of my experience. H knows the  
  
rules here, how exactly I'm not sure I wanna know, but he does.  
  
I swallow hard, trying to work up some modicum of courage, some word  
  
to say that doesn't sound as moronic as "wow".  
  
"Whoa." Step up the ladder.  
  
He slumps beside me, one arm tossed over my shoulders, the other  
  
around my ribs. "Been a while since I've done that."  
  
He licks his lips, slowly, frowning in consideration. He usually  
  
gets that look when he has some theory he wants to test about how a  
  
crime happened.  
  
(Feel special, huh Speed?)  
  
Tentative again, and no just because my pants are still open, I reach  
  
up, touch his face, kiss him. Slower now, softer, tasting what must  
  
be my come in his mouth. Salty, thick against how he usually tastes,  
  
coffee and something sweet like cinnamon. A little nauseating,  
  
because jesus, it's pretty close to giving myself a blowjob. Not  
  
sure if I could get used to it if I had to. Not sure if I want to.  
  
The taste is new, strange, unnerving.  
  
It's a weird, ego-boost power-trip thing, that he actually *blew  
  
me*. Sucked me off. Swallowed too, apparently. It's also a pretty  
  
damn big indicator that he really, *really* likes me.  
  
And what's sad, or scary, or something nerve-wracking is that I'm not  
  
sure I could do it to him. I just don't know.  
  
"H, I...H...wow. Jesus."  
  
He laughs softly, brushes a hand through my hair. "What, you've  
  
never gotten a blowjob before?"  
  
It's a little...*dirty*...to hear him say it.  
  
(dumb Speed. he tells you about people having electrical burns on  
  
their scrotum and you don't think it's "dirty")  
  
Yes, but this isn't *work*. Far from it.  
  
"Well, yeah, but, but, uh, but not from you."  
  
This makes him laugh out loud and tug me to him. "Oh, Speed.  
  
Speed."  
  
Just...nice. To lean against his body, his warmth. Not gonna get  
  
over it anytime soon. It felt fantastic the first night, the first  
  
morning, and it still does. The muzzyness of orgasm helps, too. And  
  
it's him. It's H.  
  
He runs his hands over my bare skin, soft. Like he just likes to  
  
touch me.  
  
Twisting in his arms, I kiss him, still tasting salty near-  
  
sourness. "You like this?" I ask. And I mean, the taste of cum,  
  
but he doesn't take it that way.  
  
"I like making you happy, yes. I like making you feel good."  
  
Why? Comes an unbidden, sudden thought, and thank *god* it doesn't  
  
get out of my mouth. But why does he like it? Why do I like giving  
  
him pleasure?  
  
(rhetorical questions.)  
  
"I meant, uh, the...taste." Squirm a little saying it. Kind of  
  
stupid. And I wonder why I never asked my occassional girlfriends  
  
this.  
  
"Oh." A brief pause, while he massages my upper arms. "Um...hmm.  
  
It's...not really a question of liking it...exactly. It's not like  
  
it tastes *good* ever. That I know of."  
  
How much *does* he know? And do I really want to know that?  
  
"Oh." I feel my ears heat up.  
  
He holds me, for a long time, and I relax, almost dozing with his  
  
arms around me.  
  
"Speed." I feel it more than hear it, warm breath against my  
  
cheek. "Speed? It's kinda late. You wanna go to bed?"  
  
Shit. I don't even...I look at my watch. He's right. It's late and  
  
we have to work tomorrow. And I have to deal with Calleigh, and  
  
evidence, and everything. So I might as well--what? Enjoy the time  
  
with him. Enjoy time *alone* with him.  
  
"Yeah. Ok."  
  
It doesn't feel so awkward now to undress in front of him, knowing  
  
he's watching me. It doesn't feel so novel to bed in *his* bed, with  
  
him. It's nice, too, this difference from my own apartment. His is  
  
so much...so much Horatio. I don't know exactly what that means but  
  
it is. Cool sheets and warm skin and knowing he'll be there when I  
  
wake up, because he'll be the one who wakes me.  
  
I curl as close as I can to him, one arm over his chest.  
  
Almost like home.  
  
Murmur when he brushes a ticklish spot.  
  
The dark in the room, hafted with orange light, burrows into me,  
  
slow, even breathing out to match Horatio's, compulsion or instinct  
  
or just. Being.  
  
And I won't mind dreaming, won't mind waking up.  
  
Because he'll be there when I do. 


End file.
